I brushed some of the water out of my hair, hoping it would spot her leather interior and muttered, “Whoever said, ‘Better late than never’?”

“What?”

“Never mind.”

We headed uptown to the club. It annoyed me no end that Karen was an excellent driver, skillfully maneuvering through the slick streets and the insanity that rain inspires in this town.

“I don’t think Joey will be there until later,” Karen said. “I didn’t have time to call you,” she lied.

“What a busy life you lead.”

“I could cook something at my place, a nice, quiet dinner.”

“You cook? You’re not paying me enough for that kind of risk.”

“I can cook. We summered in France, and Mama,” the accent was on the second syllable, “insisted I learn.”

“I’m not hungry,” I informed her.

“You don’t like me,” Karen very perceptibly noted. “Why?”

“To begin, you’re a shallow, vain, greedy, hypocritical, self-centered woman. Shall I go on?”

“Why must you always be funny?” Karen asked, attempting to save face.

She turned into the entrance to the Sans Pareil Club, a long drive overhung with picture-perfect live oaks draped with Spanish moss. The club oozed aristocratic presumptions—lofty white columns twined with perfectly clipped ivy and an entrance ablaze through leaded crystal. Two doormen with oversized umbrellas were instantly upon the car, escorting us safely through the torrent.

“Even with your money, can you afford this?” I asked Karen as we walked down the oak-panelled foyer.

“I don’t know. Fortunately, I’ve never had to find out. I’m paid for. Anthony Colombé.”

“Why?” I recognized the name, although I had never seen the man. The sights of such Olympic gods were not meant for rabble like myself.

“Why do you think?” she answered, as we waited for the maître d’ to attend to us.

“Sex?”

“The illusion of it. We have similar interests. He likes boys and I like girls. There are no messy expectations on my part.”

“Like a straight woman might have.”

Karen nodded as the maître d’ led us to our seats. It was all very swank, plush royal blue and gleaming brass, real crystal chandeliers with antique gas wall sconces to give the club a warm, rich (very rich) glow.

After we were seated, Karen said, “They have an excellent wine list here. Would you care to see it?”

“I’m not drinking.”

“Something other than wine? Scotch?”

“I’ll have a club soda, thank you,” was my terse reply.

A sommelier came by, but Karen waved him away impatiently.

“What would it cost,” Karen asked disdainfully, “for you to be nice to me?”

“A lot.”

She nodded slowly, then ordered our drinks from a tuxedoed waiter, giving me a cool, appraising look as she did.

“What would it cost to get you to spend the night with me?” She lit a cigarette, waiting for my answer.

“A lot more.”

“Fifty?” she asked.

It took me a second or two to realize she didn’t mean fifty dollars. I shook my head, trying not to think what fifty thousand dollars could buy. Then telling myself it didn’t matter, because Karen had no intention of paying fifty thousand to have sex with me.

“Seventy?” she persisted.

“Let’s not play this game,” I answered.

The waiter brought our drinks.

Karen took a sip of her Scotch before saying, “Why not? You could use the money, couldn’t you?”

“Most people could use that kind of money,” I answered. “If they got it, that is.”

“What if you did? Interested?”

I hesitated, then shook my head no.

“I’d forgotten what a noble character you are. Can’t buy Micky Knight,” Karen said condescendingly.

“No, you can’t.”

“So for five thousand dollars you’ll sit here all night and let everyone in this place assume we’re sleeping together, but for seventy thousand dollars you won’t really do it? Why? What the hell’s the difference?”

“About sixty-five thousand. And my integrity.”

“Well, let’s hear it for all the ‘noble’ people in the world.” She took a belt of Scotch. Karen shook her head and sighed. “You’re as bad as my cousin. The altruistic doctor.”

“Altruism has its benefits. She did get your grandfather’s fortune.”

Karen shot me a glance. “Oh, that’s right. You’ve met her. I suppose she’s the type you would sleep with. Even though she’s…” Karen remarked sourly, her expression indicating what she thought.

“She’s…?” I gathered Cordelia hadn’t told Karen about us yet. To my knowledge they had not seen each other since we’d become lovers.

“You know—straightlaced. Ever so moral. Sort of…quaint,” Karen finished.

“Yeah, I’d sleep with her,” I answered. “For free,” I baited her.

Karen gave me an annoyed look. “Why?” she countered. “She’s not that good-looking.”

“I respect Cordelia,” I said slowly and distinctly.

Karen got the comparison. And I saw the flicker of a genuine emotion cross her brow—shame, but it was something.

She recovered quickly, though. “I’ll pass along her good fortune. Should I give her your phone number?”

“Why don’t you?” I replied smoothly, enjoying Karen’s discomfort.

Karen made no answer, taking a drink of Scotch, then lighting a cigarette. We sat in silence for a while. She ordered another round, although I had plenty of club soda left. At some point, Karen reinstalled idle chatter, pointing out prominent names among the “right people.” I replied with cool but polite answers.

A woman I recognized from the society pages wiggled in beside Karen. She was a Mrs. Martin Essex Vandersnide Higglesworth III type, preserved and packed in by plastic surgery and private aerobics classes.

“Karen, darling, how divine to see you,” she oozed, taking Karen’s head between her hands and forcing a lip-to-lip kiss.

While Karen introduced us, Mrs. Whoever-the-III, fixed Karen’s cleavage with the look a hungry python might have given a baby lamb. To be fair, Karen was showing a lot of it. But I had to give her a few points for panache. She gave Mrs. Mansion-on-St.-Charles-Avenue a very gracious smile, murmured some chatty and polite drivel, then casually reached across the table, took my hand, and told Mrs. Van-Very-Rich that she had other plans for the evening. Mrs. The-III looked at me, a direct glance like I was some object to be appraised and her appraisal was very low. She didn’t have the aplomb to return Karen’s radiant smile or even hide her distaste. She wiggled her way out of our booth and went off in search of other sexual prey.

Karen held my hand for a moment longer, then, rather than allow me to snatch it away, let go.

Variations of this little scene were repeated several times. Karen, it appeared, was a sought-after (and lusted-after) woman. Not all of the would-be suitors were as repulsive as Mrs. Wigglesworthless III. Some, in fact, were quite handsome and personable, of both sexes. Karen had, it seemed, gotten the fabled family charm. It’s galling to have someone you want to hate have a few saving graces.

Then a man in a very expensive suit joined us. He wasn’t handsome in the strict sense, but his looks and clothes were the best money could buy, his glossy brown hair combed straight back and perfectly in place. His skin was pale, from days of sleeping and nights of partying. He reminded me of a sleek racing dog, his face narrow, his build lithe and compact, his clothes fit perfectly, but his eyes glittered with a nervous watchfulness as if he were ready and waiting for the starter’s gun.

“Joey,” Karen greeted him, giving him the standard hello kiss.

After the usual pleasantries, he suggested adjourning to a back room. Karen took my arm as we followed him to one of a series of posh private rooms.

I wondered if Joey was carrying a gun and braced myself for something that would be, at best, unpleasant. Karen licked her lips distractedly, then catching herself, redid her lipstick as if she had planned it.

“First of all,” Joey began with an easy smile, “I want to thank you for your loan. It saved us all a considerable amount of inconvenience. Now,” he continued, placing an expensive leather briefcase on the table, “the only thing left to do is pay you back.”

With that he opened the briefcase. It contained some papers, notepads, pens. And more than a few stacks of one hundred dollar bills. So much for unpleasantness.

“I owe you seventy thousand, right?” he said and began counting out the hundreds in piles of ten.

I stood transfixed as the money piled up. I knew that Cordelia was worth considerably more, but her wealth was abstract; this was very real.

Joey actually counted out seventy thousand dollars in one hundred bills. Karen looked from the money to him, then to me. I just looked at the money.

“That’s it,” he said, his elegant smile still firmly in place. “You can take it now and say good-bye. However, there’s a lot more money to be made here.”

Karen nodded, looked at me again, then said, “Let me discuss it with my associate. Could you wait outside for a moment?”

“No problem,” he still smiled. “Counting’s thirsty work. Can I get you ladies anything?”

Karen demurred for both of us. Then Joey disappeared, leaving me alone with Karen and the money. She walked slowly around the table until she was facing me.

“How about it?” Karen asked seductively. “Seventy thousand dollars in cash.” She looked at me calmly, daring me to refuse.

She was, I noticed, wearing a very expensive and subtle perfume. I glanced at the money, then back to her, aware of how close she was standing, her breasts under mine, almost touching. One night. Karen was far from unattractive. I also had to admit, not that I liked to, that during our earlier encounter she had been a skilled and attentive lover, even if it was all just part of the performance.

She put her arms around my neck. One night.